


They Who Walk Alone in Life, They are of Sound Mind

by osmiasis



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gardening, Mostly sadness though, Pining, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), connor is still sad tho, reader fell so hard, so did we all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmiasis/pseuds/osmiasis
Summary: What better way to ward away a jungle of guilt and regret than a homegrown garden?They also make nice thank you gifts.





	They Who Walk Alone in Life, They are of Sound Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Ophelia' by Marika Hackman

Most days you felt deviancy really suited Connor. Some mornings he would wake from the androids newly implemented ‘sleep mode’ program, equipped with lethargy, grogginess and moodiness, and stumble into the kitchen only to scowl at anyone who dared make their presence known. Lunch breaks would usually consist of a loquacious trip to the Chicken Feed with Hank, reprimanding him each time Pedro talked him into yet another game.

Other days the shining new personality he’d founded was pushed to the backseat. When he reminded you so much of the _old_ him. The Deviant Hunter. Somebody else. His movements were calibrated and unyielding. Pure efficiency.

He addressed you politely, of course, Connor was never rude, but there was always a hint of austerity. No Hank, only Lieutenant. No you, only objective.

The days after that he seemed… drained. The smiles he sent you were lined with weariness, but he never spoke up about it. You’d known him long enough to recognise the guilty blank stares he often found himself lost in. But no, he never brought it up.

Naturally, it made him hard to approach the subject with.

“Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“I um, I’ve been meaning to ask yo- “

“Is that basil?”

_Uh._

You swivelled your head around to where he was perched on the kitchen counter. He wore a simple white t-shirt that framed his body well, decked with a few strokes of Japanese script on the sleeve. Loose fitting pants and a pair of gaudy panda slippers, a sarcastic gift from Hank that Connor took a particular fondness to. His gaze was locked right onto the herbs you were chopping for the dinner.

“I- wha- …yes? Rosemary and parsley too.” You diced a handful of each into small piles on the chopping board.

He didn’t speak further. The silence stretched for a few minutes while you scraped the herbs into the simmering sauce and stirred, waiting patiently for him to continue. Connor was prone to take the time to articulate his thoughts for a few minutes before speaking, plus the companionable silence was not unwelcome.

“How do you know which herbs to use? I noticed you don’t have a recipe open.” He commented, shifting on the table behind you.

“You just sorta… know. Things that taste good together and things that don’t. Comes from experience, I guess.”

Silence.

“What herbs do you use most often?”

“Probably basil, coriander, oregano….” He nodded softly at your response, deep in thought, “why do you ask, exactly? Planning any dangerously spiced dishes I should be warned about?” The brief smile you got for the jest almost made your heart clench.

“I have actually been considering starting a small herb garden to give you access to fresh herbs whenever necessary,” he almost looked embarrassed to say it, “As a… thank you, for helping me in my deviancy.”

“O-oh,” You felt your cheeks redden slightly. You coughed, covering a small smile. _That_ certainly provoked a reaction in your belly. “that sounds, really nice actually…. thank you.”

The momentary brush of fingers when you asked him to pass you the pepper grinder sent electricity racing through your veins. “We can buy some things to plant tomorrow if you’re free…?”

He took a moment to mentally check his schedule. Nodded in affirmation and gave a hesitant smile, one that would put all the stars in the sky to shame, something you don’t get to see nearly often enough.

And when he spoke, a hint of relief in his voice, “That would work be perfect.” You felt like you were floating up there among them.

“Good, because dinner is ready.”

Connor’s grin in reply was downright _charming._

 

* * *

 

The next day the two of you planted almost unreasonable amounts of herbs, vegetables and other assorted flora, mostly because the way his eyes lit up each time you mentioned a dish you could use the alleged vegetable in was addicting to watch.

As you planted each seed, the lulling of the radio nearby worked you into a methodical routine, watering and fertilising, trimming and tilling. Connor recited exactly how to begin a grow bed from his research, excitedly selecting where to place each plant for maximum sunlight and nutrients. He occasionally hummed along to the tunes, something he’d picked up from Hank when he thought no one was watching.

You quickly saw his change in demeanour, the simple act of gardening brought out a new side of him, one that warded away the regrets, helping _him_ grow too. He was doing this as much for his own benefit as yours.

And you were thankful for it.

_You’re not subtle, my dear._

And so, you’d begun the project on a whim together, and the weeks afterward soon became stagnant. Plants grew, and vegetables sprouted, but your affections never wavered. As days passed and your visits to the Anderson household became achingly slow, you would see Connor working in the garden. Sometimes he was tending to the leaves, checking for imperfections, other times he simply sat among the growth, drinking in the feel of it all.

The longing was always there in you, eager to reach out and grab his hand but shrinking away from the doubt. Opportunities that come and go, without consequence nor result. Looks that linger not quite long enough to be noticed, but just too long to allow yourself to move on.

You would mimic him, only when he didn’t see. While he worked homicides, you worked grow beds, staying later and later each night, if only to be near a part of him for just that much longer. He questioned you almost endlessly, _‘It’s almost 11:30…. Why aren’t you at home?’_  And every time you wanted to say, _‘This_ is _my home.’_ But the words lodged in your throat and choked you until you relented, so you stuttered a, _‘I just lost track of time.’_ Instead and left your heart at the front door on your way out.

Because it belonged there now, it belonged to Connor.

And as you tended his garden the very next day you saw pieces of him between the leaves and the sacred parts of his heart he planted within them.

 

* * *

 

It had happened before, a couple of times. Connor wouldn’t be himself and inevitably a rift would open up and swallow his empathy. When the empty glares and constant look that screamed _disapproval_ were directed at you, and the silence was deafening, and your frustration got the better of you, he would stomp out to the garden to wait it out. He tended the roses more on those days.

You’d heard of Amanda Stern, Kamski’s mentor and somewhat of an enigma to many. Hank had told you very little, clearly uncomfortable with any emotions deeper than his glass of whiskey. Only that Connor resented the very idea of her and somehow Amanda equalled roses and roses equalled guilt.

You made sure to note the days those thorns looked sharper.

You’d followed him out, intent on fixing something, _anything_. But he was curt, and he was blunt, and he left you alone yet again, as if the simple dismissal didn’t break either of your hearts. _It’s not his fault_ , you told yourself, _he doesn’t know the weight of his words._ You struggled to keep the pain off your face and the churning of your stomach from overwhelming you as his back disappeared inside the house and the door slammed shut. You turned away with a heaved sigh, you’d already forgiven him anyway.

The sunflowers had taken root now, and were slowly, surely rising to their peak, where you’d feel their new petals and reminisce in memories that weren’t so long ago. The reminder of the days you grew up and the sunflower cubbyhouse you’d made with your mother in the backyard brought on waves of nostalgia. It’s what prompted you to have Connor plant his in a semi-circle, a middle ground between your life then, and your life now.  

You plugged your earbuds in and played [something soft and melancholy](https://youtu.be/xaevCz-lycA), a good distraction. For a time. Eventually you lay down and closed your eyes, surrounded by bright yellow suns and lulled by sweet notes.

When a shadow fell over your lids and refused to budge, you cracked an eye and was met with Connor, decked in his old RK800 suit and looming over you like beast, quirking an inquisitive brow.

You shut your eyes and rolled to face the other way.

“I… have come to apologise.”  

You grunted. Just because you’d forgiven him doesn’t mean you were willing to take any more cold shoulders.

He didn’t say anything for a long while. A light breeze blew the leaves in circles. You felt a chill in the April air. There was a rustle of clothes on grass behind you.

“Amanda would always be tending to the roses.”

You twisted your head to see him sitting, slouching _ever so slightly_ , on the grass. He had settled just outside the half ring of sunflowers, uncertain whether he was allowed to be there. You let him speak.

“Whenever I had to make a report to CyberLife I would do so to Amanda. She was the AI inside the Zen Garden interface. She was so _cold..._ ”

He sat there with you, talking about everything that he had done during the android revolution, and everything done to him, legs folded beneath him and heart on his sleeve. It was odd, certainly. You, lying in the middle of a scattering of flowers and vegetables, the sun dipping dangerously close to the horizon while an android spoke at length about the people who had once controlled him.

He had regrets, he had guilt, and he had gotten it all at once, never learning how to _deal_ with it. He never had the human gift of growing. Learning to process emotions over a lifespan. And so, when all these terrifying thoughts suffocated him, all he could do was cower in fear or revert to the machine without any of them.

“I have asked too much of Hank already, he offered me a home and a family, a place _to belong._ It was overwhelming. I was so _grateful,_ and I had nothing to offer in return. I couldn’t burden him, not while knowing how much he already struggled so much with his own emotions.”

“What about me?” It was the first time you’d spoken since he found you in the garden. He studied you then, unintentional puppy dog eyes coming into full view. He looked almost dazzling in the evening sun.

“That was… another issue.” He steeled himself, mentally preparing what he wanted to say, “Each time I look at you I feel a strange halt in my thirium pump, or my stomach biocomponents would seem to twist, yet when I run a damage scan it informs me nothing is out of order? It made personal conversations harder to initiate, I think.”

You knew your eyes were wide, your mouth agape. He kept going, oblivious as usual.

You sunk back to the ground.

“Do you think it is something I should be concerned about? I have seen in movies and television this sort of response…” He was still talking but you only heard the blood rushing in your ears, only felt the red tinting your cheeks. Only battled with the anxiety in your belly. Struggling with the hope and the doubt. “… and the only conclusion I can come to is- “

“Connor, I like you too.”

He froze, unprepared for such a blunt answer. The shaky smile you gave him seemed to snap him out of his reverie, his nervous laugh shattered any doubts you held. He lay down beside you, a hopeful grin that left you drifting among the stars that peeked into view above.

The only thing that grounded you was his arm slipping around your shoulders and the earbuds still playing quietly on the ground beside you.

_I am on my hands and knees_

_  
Bending at the heart of me_

_  
Hiding in the midnight of my soul_

_  
Please don't break this shell that I call home_

 


End file.
